Ordinary
by Nohbdy Knows
Summary: Ever wonder about the characters who aren't important? Every peasant, every shop owner, every fisherman, who accidentally got caught up in the curse? Here is one story of such a girl.


I hate the time at the end of winter—those few months right before spring. I hate it because for a brief span of time, one little infinity, the world is grey. The old snow is grey, the dead looking trees are grey, the sky is endlessly cloudy grey, the streets are grey, the houses are grey, even the people seem to dress in grey. A colorless world, a dark melancholy little monotone space. I hate because if feels like it's been winter for so long nothing else seems possible. It ends in a feeling of cold deep in your bones, short clipped conversations, and hopeless yearning for spring. I hate it because it reminds me of myself—from my grey eyes to my reclusive demeanor—and above all other things you must understand how I am filled to the brim with self-loathing. This is the result of my utterly boring, predictable life.

It is one thing to live an ordinary life. To be the daughter of farmers and plow fields and make a plethora of foods from corn, and to never note any difference that could occur. To live life as one walks a plodding path, one well traversed, its destination resolute. Because if no other life is known, if none is thought of, well, you cannot miss what you have never had. It's quite another thing to have this other beautiful life. This life where you have choices and freedom, this life that is full of promises. The worst was waking and realizing which life belonged to me.

Now if you approached the average person in this world and told them you lived in a fairytale world they'd probably think that was great (as soon as they decided you weren't bat shit insane) but I digress it is not. Because the truth is a very sad thing and if given the choice I would choose the beautiful lies over the harrowing truths any day. The truth is "happily ever after" is as rare in this world as it is in any other, and for most of us we will never taste it, only chase it. Most of us are not royalty, most of us are not bound by oaths and honor, most of us do not slay dragons or share passionate kisses of true undying love and affection, most of us do not 'turn evil' and attempt world domination. No. Most of us pay our taxes and stay the hell away from impending doom. We live and die on the single breath of life, we are born and raised and we work until we die so that we may one day have children who follow in our footsteps on the grand pointless masquerade that is life. Which is a point I have failed time and time again to get my mother to understand…

"But Jessy, baby, children are the greatest joy in life, and you will never understand that without your own—and a husband to take care of you!"

I pinch the bridge of my nose with a shallow sigh. I want to say_, "Mom, I've told you, we walk this earth for but a blink in time—our significance is minimal—me not getting married to Susan's boy will not summon hellfire and demons to signal the apocalypse."_ But I am not nearly so eloquent—my tongue operates independently of brain choosing instead to stutter out, "I—I …don—don't…"

My mom reached out for my hand on the tattered blue denim couch that resided in our living room, "If not for the love of children or a husband—than you must do this as a duty. A duty to your parents and to yourself and to our farm. His family has money—we wouldn't have to sell off land, and honey—you're getting older. You probably won't have any other offers."

Leave it to my mom, to mean well, but have the capacity to make me feel like the lowest form of shit there is. And it gets better…

"Me and your dad see…we're gettin' older. We can't keep up this farm that much longer," she gazed down at me with those eyes of hers, so pale blue I once thought them colorless. I swallowed thickly—you see I have this thing—I like to entirely avoid eye contact with every person in every single conversation possible. I get the vague feeling people are staring into my soul and can never hold eye contact very long, and in most cases I have no idea what color anyone's eyes are. But my mom, I know, because apart from my dad she's the only person I see every day and feel at all comfortable with. At this point in the conversation my dad strolls in and my mom continues talking,

"It was what we wanted, this farm and you, and we can't do it any longer so the responsibility has to fall on your shoulders."

_"Yeah, exactly it's what __**you**__ wants it's __**your **__dream. I want my own dreams. Okay I'm sorry I'm not the son you both wanted, I'm sorry you couldn't have any other children to help with this farm mess. But it is not my "responsibility" to get married so you can pretend your dreams came true."_ They were harsh words and I regretted the thought of them, choosing instead to swallow the bitter emotions that rushed up the back of my throat. I mumbled, "It's not what I want…" My parents didn't do a thing, acted as if I had not spoken. My dad huffed and sat on the brown armchair across from the T.V., clicking buttons on the remote at random. My mother merely tugged my hand up and pulled me to the rusty red swing on the back porch.

"Darling," she whispered softly pulling me close, "life is not a fairy tale. We must put aside what we want in order to have what we need. I know that look in your eyes, every time we mention your obligations. This farm," she hesitated "was never my dream. I wanted to join the circus, perform the tightrope, acrobatics and the like." I blinked in surprise. Her face changed, hardened in a way I have not often seen.

"I always told you growing up that this was our dream—in foolish hopes that one day it could be yours. But your father had no choice but to take over his parent's farm, and I had no choice but to marry him to increase the farm's size, by adding some of my parent's land a dowry. Honey, our marriage certainly has never been for love, but I live with the man who is your father and he treats me decent. And it's enough. It has to be `cause it's all I got." Her voice nearly broke and I lifted my arms as if to embrace her but she turned away, looking vacantly into the corn fields. "Jessica it's high time you learned that dreams are called dreams for a reason—they never come true. Visit where you like in your sleep, but under the harsh light of day you must do your duty." She stood abruptly and left me swinging on the porch, the light to the lamp flickering in the dark.

Now I know I sound like an ungrateful little shit, but it's not like they'd lose the house, just a lot of land, they'd live. It's just been so much harder since the curse broke. Before this before curses and Storybrooke, I accepted my fate with a blithe nod and smile. And made corn cakes for dinner. I didn't know any better. I thought, "hey this is just life, get married, have kids, farm, farm, farm" but now… now I am not just Jessica, I am also Caitlyn. And Caitlyn went to school, unlike me. She learned how to read and do math, how to talk to other kids. Before I was so needed on the farm, the one and only child I was never allowed the luxury of schooling, but here, I learned. I learned about history and how to write letters, I learned about multiplication and science experiments. I learned how to play piano and how to braid hair. And it was marvelous. And I could not—cannot stop. I cannot be that girl who just agrees with an arranged marriage to save my parent's farm land. It's like trying to go back to corn meal breakfast when you've discovered French toast with strawberries and powdered sugar and eggs benedict on the side. Life is a progression forward and I don't want to go back.

But I am stuck in an ordinary life. I do not waltz and I cannot fly. I hear about them. The people who slay demons and raise hell and earth to get what they want. Legends, the townsmen would say, someday they will be naught but legends, but I will not even be a legend. After the curse broke I heard about the savoir, the woman with the golden hair, here to save us all. I heard about her plight with the Evil Queen, Mayor Mills, and her son Henry. I heard about the book, with the stories of "important characters". And I know I am not in it, unless it should happen to mention a flock of peasants in the market, or passing by farm fields on some daring hero's quest. Life is a bitter pill to swallow.

I unfold my legs and stand up from the swing. I turn from the porch and I start running. Through the fields of fledgling corn stalks, no taller than my ankles, the feeling of solid earth beneath my feet, the rush of air on my cheeks, the thrum of my heart beating in my chest, this is the only release I know. I am hopelessly bad at a great many of things, like conversations, and fighting, and cooking. (Which begs the question, why do my parents have me do most of the cooking?) But running, that I can handle. Not running away from home, because I don't know how to function in society, with all the people and words and eye contact. But the simple physical motion feels unbelievably good.

I only ever go as far as the line-up of houses that mark the beginning of town, quaint little rooftops, all in a row. It's there that I see him, the man I am to marry, if my mother is successful with her scheming. He is short, has dark blonde hair and wears an atrocious amount of plaid. But he walks arm in arm with a girl. A pretty girl with strawberry colored hair and a mile wide grin. I slip off the path, crouching by the fence of one of the first houses in the row.

"Mira, you're so beautiful. So, so beautiful." He smiles at her tucking a stray strand of hair off her face.

"I know," she teases lightly pushing his shoulder. I cannot hear his reply as he presses his lips close to her ear. She giggles leaning on him as he places an arm around her shoulders. Despite what one may think I am not jealous, I do not wish to marry him; hopefully this will stop mom's constant nagging that I spent time with him. It's not like I have a right to be jealous either, our mothers may plot to try to get more money, more land, but I chose long ago not to bother with the dating game. After all you can't lose if you don't play. And don't give me any of that, well, you can't win either shit. I know. I am not trying to win. I'm trying to survive. Or I was before this curse; now I don't know.

They pass out of earshot and in another few minutes eyesight. I stand up, but after crouching so long I trip and land on my right wrist hearing it crack as it hits the sidewalk. I wave of pain pulsates up my arm and settles in my stomach making me feel ill. "Shit." I try to bend it forwards and I am met with another wave of burning pain. I hold it up for closer examination. A gush of blood flows from the skin and now I am positive I want to barf. I let out a shaky breath, there is a hospital in town, and I can walk. I don't go into town very often, it happens to be a pit of people fighting battles literal and figurative. The last time I had been here was the day the curse broke and the villagers gathered to go murder the evil queen, I was pleading with my mother not to get caught up in this shit again, and failing miserably. Since then I had avoided the mess like the plague. Especially after the return of magic.

So I stumble down the streets, eyes cast down, hunkering down making myself as small and uninteresting as possible. I don't miss the sign for the hospital, nearly running right into it. I find my way into the emergency room. I hold my wrist up awkwardly when they ask what my problem is. I am ushered back to a room where they X-ray my wrist. I lean against the white wall of the small room. I never understood why hospitals in this world pick white as their chief color. With all the sickness and bodily fluids you would think they'd wizen up and choose a color that doesn't stain so easily. When a nurse finally comes in the shock has worn off and tears streak down my face as I try to think of anything but the sore appendage at the end of my arm.

"Well it's not broken," grumbles the nurse, "it appears everyone is trying to skip town with Regina's power returned and Emma's disappearance. You'll just have to do with me. I can stitch that up no worries."

I am definitively worried. Her stitches hurt, and I sob as she curses. Eventually I am freed and discharged. I walk out the gates and see a long procession on cars headed back into town, folks headed home. "Did you hear?" calls a voice from one of the windows of one to the trucks, "Don't cross the town line, you lose all memory of who you were." I recognize them as dwarves, but if you asked me to identify names I'd be lost so I nod and they drive on.

I meander down the main strip of road, past the slightly crooked sign of Gepetto's wood shop, past the old library—still closed mind you, and up to the pawn shop at the end of the road. I know who owns it, going by Mr. Gold here, but back home, he was the dark one. In either life I had not run into him, which wasn't surprising in the slightest. I heard he makes deals, but only if you have something he wants, and in my life I have not been known to possess any great number of valuable things. And on the whole the price wasn't usually worth the trouble. So when I entered the shop, I surprised myself. I saw Mr. Gold, rifling through some old book at a counter, eye brows raised as I took another hesitant step forwards, "Can I help you?" His words didn't sound sincere, more like he just wanted me gone than anything else, but I was currently taken back by the sheer number of things in the shop. And everything was so shiny.

"I…uh…" I ran a hand through my hair nervously.

"What is you want dearie?" A trill of accented words and I felt paralyzed. What do I want? _What do I want? _I said it out loud, not as though it was a question but more as a declaration, "What do I want." I felt laughter rise in the bottom of my belly. What do _I_ want? "No one's ever asked me that before." I furrow my brow thinking, "You know," I looked up and _almost _met his curious gaze, "I don't even know." And I left the shop without a backwards glance. What do I _want?_

I want to be Caitlyn. I want to forget the life of Jessica the farm girl. So I walk home, in the dimming evening light. I ignore my mother out on the porch and I pack a bag.

It's nearly dusk when I set out, the road eerily quiet. No one else around, no one on the dividing line. I toss the bag across. I inhale, step once, step twice, and exhale.


End file.
